Crazy in Love
by mahtmarosa1
Summary: Heiress and celebrity Santana Lopez has been used to getting everything she wants. That is, until hot young actress Brittany Pierce crashes into her life. Santana's convinced she's found The One. But Brittany is only in it for her career, as is resisting her charm offensive. Still, Santana is not prepared to admit defeat. How far would Santana go for love?


1

Santana Lopez, heiress to the Winstons Golf Resorts fortune, met her girlfriend Brittany Pierce when she bumped into her on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles.

"I quite literally bumped into her!" She would tell anyone who cared to listen. "In my Mercedes!"

What Santana didn't tell everyone is that she had been stalking Brittany Pierce for weeks, since being briefly introduced to her at the launch party for PCH, PCH was short for Pacific Coast Highway, the hot new Californian soap opera in which Brittany played trust-fund surfer chick and loveable bad girl Rebecca Macdonald. It wasn't much of a stretch for her acting abilities, trust-fund surfer chick that she was.

Anyway, Santana was instantly smitten with Brittany's beach-bum style. She loved her long blonde hair, her intense blue eyes and the perfectly toned flash of stomach just seen on her swimsuit. She dragged her best friend Quinn Fabray into the ladies' room at the 1960s surf-themed party and - after much 'ohmigod-ding' - she told Quinn earnestly, "Brittany Pierce is my girl. I felt that click. She is the one." Alas, though she pouted and posed in her general vicinity for the rest of the evening, Brittany Pierce did not ask for Santana Lopez's number. In fact, she didn't even talk to her. Neither did she try to track her down after the party, as Quinn had assured her she would.

But from the moment she was born with the golden golf tee between her gums, Santana Lopez has been used to getting what she wanted. And thus, about three weeks or so later, when she saw Brittany driving towards her on Sunset Boulevard in her new Lexus SUV with private plated, Santana decided to take the initiative. Faint heart never won fair soap star. She mad an illegal U-turn and slipped into the lane behind her. And when Brittany stopped at the next set of traffic lights, Santana drove right into her rear end. Three times.

"What the fuck?" Brittany was understandably furious.

Santana was prettily contrite.

"Oh my God!" She clutched her head in her hands. "My foot must have slipped. It's these shoes." She waggled a narrow ankle and flashed a little red sole. "They're Christian Louboutin. Wedges are such a nightmare. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. Perhaps you should give me your number and I'll take you out to dinner to apologize."

"What?" spat Brittany. "I don't want dinner. I just want your insurance details. What the hell were you doing driving in those stupid shoes anyway? You've practically written off my car. Do you have any idea how much this SUV is worth?"

Of course Santana knew how much Brittany's car was worth. Every time she got even the tiniest snipe of info about Brittany Pierce's life and habits, she turned to Google. And thus she knew exactly what Brittany's silver Lexus with the red-leather trim had cost her. Just as she knew that she always wore a Breitling diving watch (a twenty-first-birthday gift from his father) and she preferred surfing shoes were old skool-style Vans. She had them in twenty-three different colours. Her shoe size was 8 and a half.

Though the impact of driving her car into the back of Brittany's Lexus would leave Santana with back and neck problems that would require months of chiropractic therapy, she was otherwise delighted with the outcome of her daring little plan. She'd certainly had to take notice of her. She recited her cellphone number out loud. And the number of her landline and her fax machine for good measure. Then, while Brittany picked her broken bumper off the hot tarmac and loaded it into the trunk for the drive to the nearest body shop, Santana perched on the bonnet of her bright blue Mercedes and texted Quinn: "Brittany Pierce has my digits!"

"Ohmigod!" Quinn texted in reply.

"So," Santana turned back to Brittany, which a flick of her brunette hair, "how about Saturday night?"

"What?"

"This Saturday night? For that dinner I owe you?" She dipped her chin and have her the best 'Princess Diana' eyes. Vulnerable. Seductive. Ever so slightly mad.

Brittany shook her head.

"Or Friday?" she asked instead.

No dice.

"Thursday? I could even manage tonight if that suits you better. Though of course, I'd have to cancel someone else..." Santana remebered a little too late that a girl should be seen to have options.

"There's really no deed," said Brittany. "I'm sure our insurance companies will sort it all out between them."

"But you'll let me make it up to you, won't you? Personally? I mean, it would make me feel so much better. And you and I meeting again like this after the PCH party..."

"You were at the PCH party?" Brittany narrowed her eyes.

"Yes. We were introduced. But you were pretty occupied, being the star of the show and all that. Wouldn't you say it's fate that's brought us together again?"

"Fate? I'd call it bad luck."

"Oh, well, the accident. That was bad luck, of course. But.."

"I've got to get to an interview," said Brittany. "Goodbye."

"See you around?" said Santana hopefully.

"Not if I see you first," Brittany muttered.

She climbed back into her car and drove off.

"She didn't say 'no' to a date," Santana told herself. Not specifically.

Ignoring the angry drivers in the queue of traffic building behind her, Santana took another moment to check her make-up before she headed back to the Winstons mansion in Bel Air.

Later that same day Santana send Brittany Pierce a muffin basket via her management agency. Of course, she had already researched her representation. The day after, having heard nothing and figuring she was probably on some kind of diet that precluded wheat, she sent fruit. The following day, thinking that perhaps she had a fruit allergy, she sent flowers. When she still heard nothing in response, she called the agency and accused Brittany's manger Rory Flanagan of keeping the gifts for himself.

"But I'm allergic to wheat and pectin," said Rory. "Also, I suffer from hay fever."

"You have to understand that this is important to me," Santana reiterated, "I caused a terrible accident and I want to make amends. I'd like to speak to Brittany in person to confirm what you've been saying."

"For crying out loud," said Rory, when he called Brittany straight afterwards. "Will you just call this freakin' girl and put both of us out if our misery?"

"But she's a nut-job. She drove into me and now she wants to take me out for dinner," said Brittany.

"Perhaps you should let her." Rory surprised him. "I've had two people ask me whether you're batting for the other side now this week alone."

"You what?"

"At least call to say thank you," said Rory paternally. "A gift is a gift and it's not nice to ignore it."

"I didn't ask for anything."

"She's the Winstons heiress. She may send a free golf pass next. I would like that. Do as you're told."

And so Brittany called Santana to thank her for the gifts, which had been distributed around the assistants in Rory's office.

"They were really great," she told her. "Thoughtful."

"So you liked them?"" Santana bounced on her bed with delight. "What colour were the flowers?"

"Orance," Brittany improvised. "Roses. Really lovely. Just right in my dining room."

"What?" Santana stopped bouncing. "Roses? But I told them to send stargazer lilies!" She made a note to call her florist and demand that the person responsible for the roses get the sack.

Perhaps sensing that someone would lose their job if her failed to describe the contents of the fruit and muffin basket correctly too, Brittany moved swiftly to change the subject. "Er, perhaps we go out for dinner like you suggested?"

"Dinner? Do you mean that?"

"Of course," said Brittany. "The only reason I didn't agree right away was, er, shock, I guess."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Santana. "Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!" She jumped up and down on the spot, flapping her hands.

"It's just dinner," Brittany stated, already slightly panicking.

Just dinner, she had no idea.

They arranged a date for the following evening. It was short notice but Brittany had an unexpected gap in her schedule, thanks to the co-star she was meant to be kissing on a night shoot having developed an enormous cold sore. Santana would simply have to let down the eight friends she was supposed to be entertaining at home. She'd lose a thee-thousand-dollar deposit with caterers and one of her girlfriends would vow never to talk to her again, but, really, this was so much more important. When he got the news, Brittany's manger Rory secured a table at top celeb hang-out The Ivy on Robertson Boulevard. Brittany had never particularly liked the food there but, as Rory pointed out, the place was always crawling with paps and this was an opportunity to be seen worth taking.

"Do I really have to do this?" Brittany asked Rory the next morning.

"Are you sure you're the only person who has pictures of you dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz eating caviare off the Tin Man's silver-painted abs?"

Brittany had to admit that she couldn't be certain. And so another Hollywood romance was born.


End file.
